The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,44
their suit lapels. Knights of Columbus, a variety of crosses denoting holy orders I don’t recognize, tiny Bibles, tiny Virgins, tiny saints of various sorts. Like a general’s medals or a Boy Scout’s badges. There’s a lot of real estate to cover and she’s managed pretty well.
“Sister,” Gregory begins.
“Mother,” she says, correcting him.
“Mother, that’s right. Is it . . . Zacchaeus?”
His mouth has trouble tumbling out the syllables that emerged so smoothly from my own.
“Mother Zacchaeus,” she says, fixing him in her small, cold eyes. “You know perfectly well.”
“Well, look who I’ve brought!” He frames me with his hands, a magician’s gesture. “This is Sister Eliza, a good Christian lady, and when I told her about your wonderful establishment here, she insisted on seeing it for herself.”
“Hmm.” Mother Zacchaeus looks me over again. “You a good Christian lady?”
“Absolutely!” Gregory says in a bright, loud voice, talking to the nun like she’s hard of hearing or hard of understanding or both. It makes me wince to hear him condescending this way.
“We’re here to see Sam?” I say, turning the end of the statement into a question.
“I know why you here, good Christian lady. And you not coming in.”
Gregory leans into the threshold, and for a second I expect Mother Zacchaeus to deck him. Her torso twists and her hand cocks back, but at the last moment she merely grasps the edge of the door, holding it tightly. Short as she is, I have no doubt she could flatten my lanky brother, whose workout routine consists mainly of carrying a stack of books from his car to his office. Occasionally Deedee will tell me horror stories of the strict nuns of her Catholic youth, but those white-haired women had nothing on Mother Zacchaeus, I’m sure.
“You not coming in, and that is final, hear? This is a sanctuary, not a come-and-go-as-you-please.”
“Come on, Mother Zacchaeus. You have to allow visitors.”
“This isn’t visiting hours.”
“But Sister Eliza came all this way.”
She looks at me again, a hint of uncertainty leaking into her glare. Gregory looks my way too, lifting his eyebrows for emphasis. Help me out here, sis.
“Please let us see her,” I ask. “Her mom sent us to make sure she’s all right.”
She bites her lip. “For real?”
“For real!” Gregory insists.
I nod in confirmation.
Reluctantly, Mother Zacchaeus steps away from the door, allowing us into what looks like the main room where meals are served. Tables in three lines hold newspapers and books. Several street people are sitting on metal foldout chairs. Two play dominoes, while one sleeps with his head on his arms. A couple of women wipe down the serving tables. I see a thick metal bar about four feet in length leaning against the wall. When she shuts the door behind us, there’s a kind of socket bolted into the wood. At night, the bar must go into the socket, in case some predator outside tries to force entry. Judging from Mother Zacchaeus’s continued glare, she must be worried she’s let the predators in without a fight.
At a desk to her left sits a man who dwarfs the woman. Clad in a bright-red track suit, he stands up. “Everything okay, Mother Z?”
“Aaron. Don’t hover over me.”
He shakes his head and sits back down at his post, muttering something under his breath.
“You follow me,” she says, “and don’t go wandering off.”
Aaron shakes his head again. “You best be listening to her, that’s all I got to say.”
From the main room, a hallway extends into several rooms opening shotgun-style, one into another. I hear a television playing cartoons and children’s murmured voices. A head peeks around the entrance: a teenage girl, making sure everything’s all right. She disappears when I make eye contact.
We’re not heading her way, it seems. Mother Zacchaeus mounts the creaking stairs, leading us past a tiny desk with a sign-out sheet on its surface and up to the second floor. Another hallway, much longer and just wide enough for a broad-shouldered man not to have to turn. Along one side, a series of doors, some of them still numbered in tarnished brass. Several are ajar, but no one is in the corridor. Through the walls, I can hear people moving, hushed voices. The place could be teeming with inhabitants, but none make an appearance. As I watch, one of the doors snaps shut. Everyone in Mission Up must be aware something unusual is going on, and they’re keeping their distance.
Mother Zacchaeus pauses on the landing to catch her breath, then we